Bulletproof Picasso
by Eiridian
Summary: When thoughts and feelings are better expressed in strokes of color rather than words, sometimes it takes a special person to understand them.


Title song by Train

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 **Bulletproof Picasso**

They started out as bold, thick lines of unevenly distributed colors against stark white at a quiet, lonely kitchen table. Legs that barely reached past the seat of a stiff wooden chair kicked gently up and down as sticks of wax grasped in tiny hands glided inexpertly over sheet upon sheet of paper. Long years flew by in slow motion at that table as blankness was filled with color before it was wadded up, torn up, and thrown away. Nothing of those wax lines remained to serve as proof that that lonely table once had a tiny companion for hours on end. Nothing was good enough, worth enough, to save.

Suddenly, almost without warning, those boldly uneven lines of colored wax liquefied into their muted counterparts. Legs that were still a bit short for the number of years that they had seen still swung leisurely back and forth, occasionally tapping bare heels against wooden chair legs that now displayed subtle scuff marks on their surface. Glaring white surfaces had been exchanged for a thicker, hardier variant with an off-white, almost cream colored hue. Tiny, almost imperceptible imperfection divots in this new surface would have grabbed onto the wax lines and amplified their already fickle distribution of pigment, but tiny hands that were starting to lengthen were now grasping a new carrier of color. Hard wax had been replaced with soft bristles drenched in liquid color that glided effortlessly over the new paper, gently filling in all of the empty spaces that were inevitably inherent in the paper.

The lonely kitchen table gained a few water stains in the shape of perfect circles throughout the course of these liquid color years, had stood witness to admonishments over these stains, and watched as yet more pieces of what had once been empty canvases of possibility before being filled with color and emotion were torn up and discarded. One piece of paper survived the liquid color phase, hidden carefully away in an old shoebox under the boy's bed and filled with a sea of dark blues and blacks that provided contrast to the hundreds of silvery white speckles that cradled differently colored spheres in their midst.

The period during which drops of colored liquid fell upon the table's top did not last very long before thin, precise lines began appearing on what was once again clean white paper. Feet were nearly brushing the ground now and legs no longer swayed to and fro. There was something more subdued now about the boy that had always been far quieter than the other children as he used his thin wooden sticks to impart life unto the pages before him. More time was spent on each piece of paper than had been given to the wax lines or liquid color, perhaps because it seemed to take longer for the thin colored lines to fill a blank space, but even so there were a great many more pieces of color produced than before.

Almost every piece of paper with these lines left behind by colored wood were saved in that old shoebox under the bed alongside the planets and stars. Something seemed to be missing in the boy now though, something that only survived in the tangle of colored lines dragged across paper. He seemed detached from the world, disinterested in all but his hours spent at the table living through pieces of dead trees that had been pulled together to form something new.

The spark, the life, rekindled within the boy when the thin lines of every color imaginable turned gray. The first time that the lines turned gray, what was left on paper was simple, uncertain of its worth, and stunningly beautiful in the myriad of emotions that were behind it. Excitement, freedom, trepidation, certainty, all of these emotions were evident with every tentative sweep of gray.

The first time Aoyagi Hajime held a sketching pencil in his hand was the day that he rode a road racer for the first time.

Over time, the gray lines became more refined, more sure of themselves, even though the table saw less of Hajime as the years ticked by. The sun saw more of him now, his new road racer saw more of him now, but every night for a couple of hours after the old kitchen table held the weight of platefuls of food Hajime would sit with a sketchbook (many pieces of off-white paper bound together) and forget the hours for a while.

High school had just begun for Hajime and the thin lines were now alternating between gray and bursts of color, telling no one all of the things that he wanted to say but didn't know how to. It was when he joined Sohoku's cycling club that Hajime met him for the first time. With a slim build, brightly expressive eyes, dark ebony curls that brushed a delicate jawline, and a smile that inexplicably churned Hajime's insides, it wasn't surprising that Teshima Junta began appearing on the blank pieces of paper more often than not.

Hajime still didn't speak much even though for Teshima he really wanted to, more than anything, but no matter how hard he forced the words into his throat they would go no further. For one of the first times in his life, Hajime was frustrated with his perpetual silence that kept him so far away from people. It was a frustration that manifested itself in angry dark slashes sliced across unblemished white for several days until that one evening after practice.

It had been a long, hilly practice session and Hajime was worn out to the point that all he wanted was to go home, shower, and pass out. Dragging himself into the clubroom to grab his things, the bright lights caused Hajime to consciously blink a few times before he realized that he wasn't alone. Sitting alone on a bench, hunched over with all of his upper body's weight burdened on his knees, Teshima looked more tired, more defeated, than anyone that Hajime had seen before. Stopping in his tracks, all of his own weariness forgotten, Hajime couldn't tear his eyes away as he wondered what one was supposed to say in situations such as this one, assuming of course that the person in question wasn't incapable of speaking to human beings like Hajime was.

Suddenly, in a small, broken voice, it all came spilling forth from Teshima's lips. The story of his persistence, his passion, that was all to be met with naught but disappointment and frustration. Teshima loved cycling, loves the freedom it so freely gave him as it did Hajime, and something in his voice pulled Hajime's from whatever forgotten depth within his being that it'd been hiding in. His voice was quiet and a bit scratchy, like the sound of graphite being pulled along a piece of paper, but it was there. His voice was there, and it was telling the one person who was starting to mean something to him that they didn't have to be alone anymore. He, Hajime, would be right there by Teshima's side and they would ride together. They would be partners.

Hajime was never sure even years later if Teshima's wide eyes and shock parted lips were due to what he said or the fact that he'd say anything at all, but he did know that his fingers itched like crazy all the way home to capture that expression on paper. Even when he finally desperately flung himself down at the kitchen table his itch could not be sated until the wee hours of the morning when he was finally happy with the tilt of Teshima's lips, the soft glint of hope in his eyes mixed with…something…something that Hajime could not yet put a name to.

It took time and many failed guesses at what Hajime wanted to say for Teshima to slowly learn how to read the sound of the different silences that shrouded Hajime, but he was tenacious and stubborn. In the beginning when Teshima would blurt out random answers to his own questions or make an off topic comment as a blind guess of what his new friend was thinking it took Hajime by surprise and threw his world so far off its axis that he was unsure if it would ever straighten itself. It took days, weeks, and months for Teshima to learn that a gentle bump against his elbow signaled that Hajime didn't understand something, a weight against his shoulder told him not to worry so much, and an open hand placed anywhere on his person meant that Hajime just needed a moment of quiet. Teshima watched for every little movement in different situations, reactions to words, for so long that it passed in the beat of a heart. Diligently, Teshima watched, and Teshima learned how to read Hajime's every body movement and every expression hidden behind honey colored hair. Slowly, like the wearing down of a stone by the persistent sea, Teshima learned how to fully communicate with his cycling partner, his best friend, without Hajime having to say a single word.

The feeling of having a person care so much that they would happily put in hours of studious observation just so that he wouldn't have to push himself beyond his comfort zone to have a friend was both exhilarating and scarily new for Hajime. Teshima seemed so earnest in his efforts, so happy as he figured something new out, that Hajime couldn't bring himself to believe that Teshima was anything but sincere. Every night, at that old kitchen table, a new quirk of the mouth, a different sparkle in dark eyes, a new way for dark curls to fall, everything was carefully captured and tucked away with dozens of others. Teshima was not the only one watching.

As close as they had become, to the point where Hajime wasn't sure anymore where he ended and Teshima began, both on and off of their bikes, there was still room for something else to situate itself between them. It came during their training camp with the seniors, secluded away in the mountains of Hakone, quite unexpectedly to the point that its consequences would later blindside and unsuspecting Hajime.

It was towards the end of the camp, almost done with the grueling four days of riding made slightly more bearable for the two by the knowledge that the other was never far away. They had all gone to bed sore and exhausted and Hajime had fallen asleep almost before his head met pillow. Not much of his time unconscious was retained in memory, but through the dark abyss he had been pulled back to the light of early dawn by gentle shakes to his shoulders and a hushed voice calling his name with slowly mounting panic. Blinking back into the waking world, Hajime could barely see Teshima's worried face through the pools of liquid that blurred his vision and ran down his face.

Night terrors, silent just like Hajime usually was, had plagued the boy for a few years prior to middle school and still occasionally struck when his defenses were down. He could never remember with his mind what they were about, but his body remembered. For hours after waking from a night terror every part of his body would tremble, shake, and spasm with the aftershocks of the dream. He would cry for several minutes, abruptly stop for a few, and then repeat. On bad nights his lungs would claw for oxygen that they didn't believe was already present and leave him silently gasping every other breath for something, anything, to ground him and make it all go away.

He wanted to explain, to apologize for waking his friend, but neither his fickle voice nor his currently uncooperative body would let him. Sitting up, al Hajime could think about through his inexplicable tears and full body shakes was how he was going to tell Teshima what was happening when none of his modes of communication were functional. Wiry arms bodily lifting him up cut any train of thought short as he was tenderly placed in a warm lap and wrapped in the blanket he'd just been tangled up in. Arms that were neither firm nor soft held him close underneath the blanket against a solid chest as he was gently rocked back and forth. Deep, even breaths in his ear and against his body were the only sounds that he could hear; lightly calloused hands smoothing over the still healing scars that traveled up the insides of his arms the only sensation he could feel alongside the rocking motions of their bodies; and slowly, slowly, as the morning came Hajime fell into a peaceful sleep held securely in Teshima's arms without any exchange of words.

Nothing was ever mentioned about that morning, but something between them had obviously, subtly changed. Physical closeness had always been a part of their relationship, but after that morning it seemed as if the amount of time spent with a hand, an arm, a hip, or a weary head resting against the other's body increased. Or rather, maybe Hajime was just more sensitive to the heat between them. There was something different in Teshima's eyes now when he looked at Hajime, whether they were laughing over an incident or debating a homework problem it was always there lurking just beyond Hajime's grasp. Every night, no matter how furiously he drew or how well he captured that elusive something that had taken up residence in Teshima's eyes he just could not give it a name, could not say with any certainty what it was.

Like a truck barreling down a one way street that one finds themselves stuck on facing the wrong way, Hajime watched as it approached from a distance but was still not prepared for the impact to slam into him with the force that it did. It was late into the night when his pencil completed one last swoop to form gentle curls that Hajime could draw with his eyes closed by this point. Teshima was growing his hair out a bit, pulling it back into a ponytail to keep the spirited curls out of his face when he needed to. Hajime loved seeing those curls let loose to spill over Teshima's slim shoulders, but he also liked when they were pulled away to expose the smooth skin on Teshima's neck that protected his steadily beating pulse. Sometimes when they were curled up together watching a movie at one of their houses Hajime would sneak himself up to rest on Teshima's shoulder, face pressed up against that soothing echo of Teshima's heartbeat. Teshima never seemed to mind as he would casually wind an arm around Hajime's shoulders to help him comfortably situate himself into his new position, all without saying a word or letting his eyes stray from the television.

Sitting back in his chair to get a good look at his latest piece, Hajime found himself drawn to those eyes. Bright and crinkled at the corners, frozen in the middle of a surprised laugh, Teshima's eyes still glowed with that unnamable emotion that they always held now when he looked Hajime's way. Staring at a graphite representation of those beautiful eyes, something started to slide slowly into place until it violently clicked. Breath was jerked from Hajime's lungs as his vision began to blue and he had to hastily set his sketchbook down on the table before his tears could ruin it.

Looking like a little kid with his knees hugged to his chest and bare toes curled around the front edge of his seat, Hajime's eyes were locked onto that sketch as tears of overwhelming happiness flowed freely down his fac. For all the years that the kitchen table stood there as Hajime passed lifetimes creating upon its surface, it had never heard more than a few softly spoken words from the boy to interrupt the silence. Now, however, there was disbelieving, joyous laughter ringing through the once silent space as Hajime just sat there and soaked in all of the emotions that came along with his realization.

The day that Teshima found out about Hajime's art, which he had surprisingly kept secret from Teshima for a very long time, the two had ridden their bikes back to Hajime's house after school and before long the overstuffed shoebox of drawings, paintings, and sketches was retrieved from under Hajime's bed and sitting empty on the kitchen table with its contents spread out on the table's well worn surface. Hajime sat patiently by as Teshima took his time to carefully, almost reverently sift through each piece of time-faded paper and take in everything that Hajime had left on them. Every moment of happiness, discovery, hurt, and confusion as he had grown up was saved on those old hidden away pages. In that shoebox had been every word, every laugh, and every tear that Hajime had kept locked away from the world, and they were now brushing against Teshima's fingertips in the most physical form that they could take.

Realizing the gift that he had been given, wondering how he could ever express how much it meant to him, Teshima turned his eyes towards his best friend, his partner, and prayed that Hajime had gotten as experienced in reading Teshima's body as Teshima had Hajime's. Right now, although there were so many thoughts and emotions chasing each other through Teshima's mind and chest he highly doubted he could find the words to even begin. A warm hand slid into his, tangling their fingers together and giving Teshima's a comforting squeeze as hazel eyes stared unwaveringly back. Hajime knew.

More breath than he knew he was holding rushed out of Teshima's lungs in a gust of relief. He had been understood even though for once he had been the one to not find the words. Giving Hajime's hand a grateful squeeze back, Teshima broke their eye contact and turned away, lips already parted to guide their attention elsewhere. It was happening more and more often, these tenuous moments that threatened to plunge their relationship into uncharted waters, and Teshima always drew them back before they could leap. Maybe he knew what lay on the other side of the invisible line that they had been skirting for months, maybe it was only a guess, but regardless he was still scared of whatever it may be.

"Junta." Hajime rarely spoke aloud, even to Teshima, so when he did Teshima knew it was important. Whatever excuse he was formulating in his head to put distance between them instantly evaporated as he snapped to attention, ready to hang onto every single word Hajime was willing to give him as he turned back around.

Teshima barely caught the first glimpse of Hajime's face from the corner of his eye before his lips were firmly accosted by Hajime's warm, insistent, desperate pair. Hands that had not let go of each other instinctually gripped tighter as Teshima's free arm was thrown around Hajime's shoulders to hold him as close as was physically possible. Months of living in fear of what awaited just beyond their friendship was nothing compared to the terrifying thought that this could all very well be a dream that would slip away after teasing Teshima mercilessly with what could have been. The fingers digging into his hip, the butterfly flutter of eyelashes against his eyelids clenched closed in fear, and the lips moving against his in near perfect sync were enough to convince Teshima that it was not a dream.

When they finally parted their lips they didn't move far away from each other, Teshima's hand that had traveled from Hajime's shoulders to cradle the back of his neck made sure of that. Heavy breaths mingled and stuck to moistened lips as eyes gazed at each other in amazement mingled with a dash of shyness. The kitchen table was digging painfully into Teshima's lower back, but with his whole entire world in his arms he couldn't care less.

"Junta, stop running."

Teshima could feel the words spoken against his lips, hear the sound waves captured in his ears and reverberated in their chests still slotted together, and for once he was the one to let his actions be his words as he responded by recapturing Hajime's lips with no intention of ever letting them go.


End file.
